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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25188895">I Was Brought To My Senses</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidewinder/pseuds/sidewinder'>sidewinder</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Police (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soulmates, Triple Drabble</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:21:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>300</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25188895</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidewinder/pseuds/sidewinder</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has a different way of knowing.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Stewart Copeland/Sting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Multifandom Drabble 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I Was Brought To My Senses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApexOnHigh/gifts">ApexOnHigh</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Some immediately saw the world in full color, where before all was grey. Others found their taste buds awoken, or could suddenly appreciate music when before they were tone deaf, or immune to the appeal.</p><p>For Sting, it didn’t happen the instant he met his soulmate—though he felt <em> something </em> intangible drawing him to the dark-haired, buoyant American. Somehow the man had actually been excited by Last Exit’s mediocre evening affair.</p><p><em>“I’m putting a band together,” </em>Stewart Copeland had said, scrawling his information on a scrap of paper.<em> “Look me up if you get to London.”</em></p><p>Sting had, eventually. And the day after they’d first jammed together, in Stewart’s flat in Mayfair, Sting had gone home to write a new song with inspiration he’d never felt before. He also realized how to rework his old, cliched ideas into works of great musical magic. Stewart had freed his struggling muse to reach new heights and, despite their immense differences, Sting could see them working together toward something truly special. Music, on stage and on record, to finally match what was in his head.</p><p>Love, as he’d long desired.</p><p>Sting asked, some many months later, “When did <em> you </em> know?” It was late at night in some seedy motel in the middle of Nowhere, U.S.A., threadbare bedsheets tangled and soaked with the sweat of their passions.</p><p>Stewart stretched his long body, and sighed. “I had a dream, that night after we met. You and I, backstage somewhere, beating the <em> shit </em> out of each other. And I knew.”</p><p>“Because we had a punch up? Delightful.”</p><p>“No. Because I never remembered my dreams. That was the first one, ever. I knew my brain had to be telling me something.”</p><p>“That we’re certifiable?”</p><p>“Maybe. But it’ll be worth it.”</p><p>To Sting, it already was.</p><p> </p>
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